by Awert, Wolf
The world around him faded and was replaced completely by the inside of the branch. There was something in it. Just as Nill was going to follow this strange presence to its origin, a large fireball hit him in the forehead, just above his nose. Fool, he thought, and flung the wood away. For a moment everything around him glowed red. The fireball had not only been incredibly hot, but also thrown with such force that he had been knocked flat on his back. Nill gasped, more out of surprise and anger than pain, because his head was numb. Along with the hair on his brow a few nerves seemed to have been burned. Nill was surprised that he was even still alive. He must have subconsciously absorbed most of the heat.
One more attack and I’m done for, he thought, desperately trying to shake off the numbness. But just as he was gathering his strength for a barrier, he heard a piercing howl of pain. The students all looked around, and even the prince closed his hands and stared at the White Mage in either disbelief or horror. The wooden staff was writhing around the mage’s face, gouging deeply into his flesh. The mage tore at the wood, screeched, and with a dull thud the staff fell to the floor. Deep, red cuts and gaping holes, dripping blood, covered his once-handsome face.
Prince Sergor-Don looked back at Nill and flung another fireball at him, but this one was smaller than the first. It did not manage to reach Nill. Small blue ice spheres came in from the side, as if guided by a string, extinguishing the Fire. Tiriwi had intervened.
The lesson was over. The White Mage left the room in a hurry to find aid for his wrecked face, leaving the students to stand around helplessly.
“Thanks for the help, Tiriwi. I didn’t think the Fire Prince was that powerful,” Nill said.
“He isn’t,” Tiriwi whispered. “The first fireball came from the teacher. He was standing right behind the prince, but I saw it with my own eyes. That’s probably why your staff attacked him. The second, weak fireball was Sergor-Don’s.”
“I had no idea. I didn’t throw the wood, I just dropped it. It must have moved on its own. I’m not sure but I had the feeling that the staff was already full of magic and the only reason I had such problems was that I was trying to force a different energy into it, and they didn’t get along.”
“So you think the staff flew back to its master to take revenge?”
“Or to share its pain. But that makes as much sense to me as a teacher attacking a student.”
Nill hoisted himself onto the bench and put his legs up. He was too powerless to stand right now. Slowly the students filtered out of the room, leaving only Brolok, Nill and Tiriwi behind. The footsteps echoed away.
“Now what do we do?” Nill, who had so far considered the latest brush with death one of many possibilities fate had in store for him, had become pensive. “It looks like I’m in someone’s way.”
“The Archmage of Metal,” Brolok answered immediately.
“That’s possible, but I don’t think we can prove it.” Tiriwi wore a doubtful expression.
“Do I have to prove it?” Nill asked.
“Not necessarily,” Tiriwi answered hesitantly. “But if you’re wrong, you’ll be on the wrong path and your real enemy can attack while you’re not looking.”
“It could be Sergor-Don. He was an accomplice, at least,” Brolok speculated.
“Never!” Nill shook his head vigorously. “He’d never allow someone to take the glory he wants when he crushes me in front of everyone. If he was in the know, then just as an aide. But that would mean that the real person is a mage that even a prince bows down to.”
“We’re going to need help,” Tiriwi said.
“But who would help us?” Nill asked.
“You should tell your mentor.”
“And who says we can trust him?” Brolok’s distrust was as strong as ever.
“Nobody,” Tiriwi replied. “But if he has his own plans for Nill, then those will be difficult to carry out if Nill’s dead. Besides, it would be silly to presume Ambrosimas is responsible for this. If he wanted Nill gone, he could much more elegantly show him some mysterious magic and let him have an ‘accident’; Nill always tries everything out. The attempt to have him attacked during a lesson shows that whoever it is wants to remain hidden, and that they have no direct contact to him.”
Brolok was impressed, and he said it out loud.
Nill attempted to contact his mentor that same day, but he had no idea how to. Ambrosimas had only ever called upon him, not the other way around. He went to the Thought quarter, but nobody could tell him where his patron was – or they did not want to. Ambrosimas was, after all, an Archmage, and answered to nobody if he did not wish to. As a last resort, Nill went to the High Lady and told her what had happened.
“I thought something like this would occur,” Morlane said. “But not so quickly, and definitely not so badly done. This was no high-ranking mage’s and most definitely not an Archmage’s plan. So it could be anyone. Perhaps it wasn’t an attempt on your life, but just a warning? But that makes me wonder for what. Did you ever have difficulties with the mage who led your lesson?”
“I’d never seen him before in my life.”
“Unfortunately I’m not the Magon, and so I too can only contact Ambrosimas when he wishes. But that is of little importance; you can assume that he already knows of what happened, and he’s probably already taking action. Ringwall does not like unexpected occurrences.”
Nill waited in vain for a sign from his mentor. Nobody knew where he was. No investigation ever occurred, and events had come crashing down all around. The young White Mage, his face visibly scarred by the staff, had proclaimed on the day after the incident that he wanted the Magon’s eyes and ears on him at all times. It had caused quite some uproar. The ways of the Magon were a secret to Ringwall. Some whispers swore on the truth of rock and bone that the White Mage and the Magon had formed a close mind-link. Others claimed that it was a ruse, that the only way to get out of the Magon’s gaze was to beg for his attention.
On the second day after the attack the White Mage climbed up to the walls, and now stood on a particularly wide stretch between the inner and outer walls. It was easily observable from many spots and a meeting point for many due to the large number of portals in the area. There he stood, motionless among the many hastening mages, his eyes closed. He began to dissolve.
The foul stench of the magical aura that consumed itself and its surroundings spread to every corner of the ramparts, unmoved by the strong wind that blew from the peak of Knor-il-Ank. Those few mages who happened to be present fled the scene immediately; several archmages remained to face the horror. Even an Archmage was powerless once the Dissolution had begun.
The aura of a healthy person melded with the surrounding air, its edges more visible due to flickering rather than color. This aura had a hard, black edge, slowly collapsing in on itself, moving further inwards. At first it looked rather pleasant, like a great leaf rolling up majestically, but the bubbles and spots, dirty grayish-green and yellow, betrayed the illusion. As the edges shrank, the aura was diminished. A last, feeble glimmer lit up as the aura’s edges reached the living flesh beneath it, tearing through the skin. That which shortly before had been blessed by the gentle touch of life was now ashen and burned, falling to the ground in shreds and lumps. The bones resisted just a moment longer, but they, too, turned to dust. A small heap of shredded cloth and ash remained on the stone floor, and with a last flash not only the aura and the body, but most of the memories of the unfortunate were gone.
Dissolution was a particularly thorough death, usually happening in concealment and after ample preparation. Executing one hastily and in full view of the public eye was not only a show of absolute impudence but also a burning denunciation. Some believed to know that nothing had been voluntary about this death, but rather that it had been orchestrated by a mighty presence in the shadows. But nobody knew the name of this presence.
So Ringwall came to be home to different factions, each with their own opinions on the matter. One gro
up saw the fall of the great mage city, no longer capable of protecting its citizens; another praised the might of the archmages, executing a traitor before everyone’s eyes. Another group still claimed to know that the White Mage, whom nobody could properly remember, was in league with those forces who sought to change Ringwall’s destiny, and thanks to the attentiveness of the highest watchers had been cut out like a pestilent boil. And still there were doubters, those who claimed the Dissolution had been nothing but a trick, an illusion created to keep any potential rebels in check. Ringwall was paralyzed for days, and Chaos smelled chance in the air.
“Ringwall is quaking, its foundations are beginning to crumble,” the Archmage of Metal told Prince Sergor-Don. “But we need not worry. It might even work out to our advantage. We will wait for the opportune moment.”
Prince Sergor-Don looked calmly at his patron. The playful excitement that had dominated the duel during his trial was gone. The air was heavy in the room, the walls smelled damp and the combined auras of both master and student were not enough to push the darkness back into every corner. The taste of Metal emanating from the prince’s mentor was bitter upon his tongue.
“I have a surprise for you, prince,” the Archmage said. “But first I would like us to continue in our lessons. Please stand in the center of the room, so that you have some space.”
The Archmage bent his little and ring fingers until they touched his thumb. In the resulting circle the magical energy gathered. His middle and index fingers formed a finger-blade, aimed at the prince like a sword. The air began to collapse around him in small explosions. A bolt of lightning shot at the prince’s sword arm. Sergor-Don let out a small scream. He swayed on the spot, his sword arm hanging uselessly by his side. He resisted the temptation to hold it in his remaining arm, but the attack had left him winded. His breathing was ragged, and the unnatural white of his eyes shone from the grayish face.
“You survived,” the Archmage said. At the same time his mouth was pointing downwards in displeasure.
Prince Sergor-Don gasped for air in small breaths, and then let it all out in one quick exhalation.
“Where did you go wrong?”
“My shield was too weak.”
The Archmage gave a satisfied smile. “No, it was not. But do not ever think that your enemies cannot see your shields. It was not too weak, but too small. Your hands and feet were exposed. Once again.”
The mage turned around and went back to his first position. Prince Sergor-Don, irritated by the hit he had taken and the reprimand he had received, shot a flaming spear at his patron’s left shoulder, simultaneously preparing a new barrier. The spear found its target and burst into a useless bundle of sparks, but the mage still spun around. The prince smiled, pleased, but the smile froze on his face as another bolt raced toward him, a blindingly white bundle of energy, tearing the air apart and covering his shield. The barrier broke and the prince began to twitch all over his body.
“Fool,” the mage said coldly. “Magic is a game of expectation, not strength. Your shield was obvious; mine was not. And mages have eyes facing backwards as well.” Prince Sergor-Don glared angrily at his mentor.
“Practice your barriers. But that was not the reason why you’re here. I promised you a surprise: here it is.” At these words he drew a symbol in the air and an old man came from the darkness of the walls. He wore the dark robes of the lodge of the Other World. He seemed small and fragile, shuffling forwards step by step under the burden of a large bag.
“Please, carry my burden,” he whispered, and he threw the bag at the prince. The latter dodged it and the bag landed heavily on the floor. The old man grew, gaining strength, and the bag opened, releasing a horde of small whirling figures, growing quickly and dashing at the prince. He attempted to hold them off with a fiery sword, but achieved nothing.
At a motion of the old man’s hand everything was sucked back into the bag.
“Elemental magic won’t serve you against demons,” the old man said in a tired croak. “I will teach you.”
Prince Sergor-Don was truly surprised. Spells of the Spheres were reserved for mages, although there were always those few young sorcerers who tried their hand at understanding the secrets on their own. It was truly something special to be instructed in the magic of the Other World, but he did not appreciate the irreverent tone in which the old mage had addressed him.
Chapter 7
Ambrosimas had disappeared in the exact moment he had heard of the attack on his pupil. It was the sign he had been waiting for. Someone was growing restless, believing that they had to act, bringing everything into disarray. But who was this someone?
But the more pressing riddle was his pupil as such. The Mages of Ringwall were infuriated by Nill’s continued disregard for tradition and rules. “How is the boy supposed to uphold something he’s never known and never grown up with?” Ambrosimas thought to himself. He was perturbed, like the Magon, by Nill’s mysterious origins. For a long time he sat in front of the signs on Nill’s amulet, calling them to memory again and again, hoping to find an answer within them. With no success to speak of, he called upon the image of his pupil. But what he saw shocked him. Nill was lying on the ground. His hair was singed, his clothed burned, his body twitching as though life was escaping from it. Ambrosimas thought he could see the outline of a figure bending over the body, but he could not be certain.
“How can I protect you if I don’t know who you are?” Ambrosimas shouted in frustration. “Tell me why you’re here! Who sent you?” If it were possible to grab an image by the lapels and shake it, Ambrosimas would have done so.
The picture of Nill attempted to speak, but it was too weak to even make sounds in the air, not to mention reach Ambrosimas’ mind, and so he resolved to stare at Nill’s lips, mouthing the same words over and over again.
“Where there is light, there is shadow also.”
Ambrosimas cursed under his breath. “Yes, yes, and where there’s shadow there is light.”
The Archmage was familiar with the phrase. It was one of the rules that the Neophytes had to learn, a constant reminder that a summoning always brought more than one change.
But why was the rule so important for the image to keep repeating it? Ambrosimas made a gesture and it vanished.
What really disturbed Ambrosimas was the fact that Nill’s presence alone seemed to cause change to the course of things. He had woken powers in Ringwall that were strong enough for a White Mage to feel obliged to interfere. Nill had survived, yes, but even with all his effort he could only help Nill if the result was clear to him, and he doubted that more and more.
And so he disappeared, only reappearing during the White Mage’s suicide. He was one of the few archmages who did not turn away from the terrible sight. A little to the side, in one of the small buildings around the place, he witnessed every moment of the spectacle. It was not just the agonizing expiration of an aura, the vile decay of the human body, and the painful tugging at his memories that he only managed to cling onto due to his magical prowess. It was the early moment of a human sacrifice in a game of fate and time. With the death of the last cell and the final echo of the imploding aura Ambrosimas tore his eyes away from the scene and disappeared again.
And now he was hunting the hunter. He was in Ringwall, yet he also was not. The Master of Illusions could hang in the air for hours as a cloud of dust in the dying sunlight, listening to every word. He ran from one hidden niche to the next on the short, fast legs of a tooth-rat, or else found a place among the motionless stones of a wall. Ambrosimas was everywhere, and he had begun to equip Ringwall with eyes and ears.
He spoke to the stones, talked to the cracks in the walls, conversed with the few paintings that remained. He searched for the Stoneteeth, magical pieces of rock that had been inset into different parts of Ringwall’s corridors. Sleekly and inconspicuously they hid, sunken deep into the underground, where their exposure to Knor-il-Ank awoke a part of the deep magic of the mountain
.
“What is it, honorable colossus?” Ambrosimas asked. “I know you can no longer hear, but you are not yet blind. Will you grant me a favor?”
A fleeting shadow flew over the surface of the stone and disappeared again, as though it had blinked. “Be my eye,” Ambrosimas implored.
His net was tightly knit. Nothing could escape him in Ringwall now. But it took far more time to consult the net than to weave it. Eyes that do not know what they must look for report everything, and everything is nothing. Ambrosimas spent most of his time cursing under his breath, and if someone had seen him, they would not have recognized him as the funny, two-faced, wise fool they had known.
Although the stream of rumors had mostly passed Nill and his friends by, its great waves crashing elsewhere, they did feel a certain atmosphere of disorientation and insecurity. The lessons for self-healing and spell-casting were suspended for the time being, and the three had agreed that it was better not to leave their caves more than strictly necessary.
Tiriwi would occasionally sneak out because she could not live without sunshine. Brolok buried himself in work at the forge, blackening his face. Working the iron with the mucklings helped him keep his head clear.
Nill spent his days sitting in front of the sealed door to the catacombs. “I can’t get past this,” he groaned after conceding defeat yet again. “I know how it’s done – the lock is simply covered with several layers of magical energy, and it blocks any attempt to get close to the lock itself. It may be hard, but we could manage if we remove one layer at a time. But it keeps renewing itself!” Exasperated, he stared at the pulsating red he had just removed from the seal with inhuman effort. “I only just took this off and in the moment I need to recover its back on again.”
Nill paced through the room like a beast that had been thrown into a pit. Three steps left, turn. Three steps right. His boots made a shuffling sound on the ground when he turned. The regular steps sounded, too: thud, thud, thud. Nill stopped. Thud. That was the last step. He had an idea.